It's All Fine
by chemicaldfect
Summary: When John realizes that all the people he's being made to deduce are gay, he knows Sherlock's doing it for a reason. And he knows that reason, of course - Sherlock wants John to admit he's bisexual. But John's not bisexual - the only man he's ever been interested in is Sherlock. But he can't tell him that, now can he? / Cliché storyline, Johnlock. More details inside! :)


**Title:** Secrets (I had no idea what to name it, can you tell?)

**Synopsis: **When John realizes that all the people he's being made to deduce are gay, he knows Sherlock's doing it for a reason. And he knows that reason, of course - Sherlock wants John to admit he's bisexual. But John's not bisexual - the only man he's ever been interested in is Sherlock.

**Rating and warnings: **Currently T, but might up it to M if this gets positive feedback and I decide more parts are necessary! Some swearing and sexual themes so watch out for that. Also, a bit of angst on Sherlock's part 'cause I can't ever resist that. Not beta'd or britpicked!

**A/N: **Alright, so this is my first work in the Sherlock fandom, and I'm really nervous about putting it up – mainly because I haven't written _anything_ in over a year, so I'm afraid my writing is rusty and that I might have gotten the characters wrong. I'm also scared to start writing in a fandom that has so many amazing writers in it. I'm so out of my league lmao

This is a fairly cliché storyline, but I needed something simple to integrate back into the fanfic-writing world. I don't have a beta or a britpick, so any help is welcome, and reviews are appreciated. :) Thanks to youdeserveher on tumblr (can't quite remember her ff dot net name) for convincing me this was good enough to put out there.

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"So," Sherlock said, gesturing towards a woman sitting a few tables away from them. "What about her?"

John took a glance. Brown hair. Gentle, plain face, but pretty. Minimal makeup, old flannel shirt, too-big jacket, baggy jeans. He thought she could be a real looker, if she put some effort in, but that was none of his business. She had a pretty smile. Just looking at her, he thought he'd probably take her home (maybe not - there was an experiment involving human hands on the kitchen table) if he was looking for someone. But that wasn't really what he was supposed to be thinking about.

"She's married." He looked back again. His eyes followed her hands as she flirtatiously batted her partner on the arm. "Her hands are tanned, but there's a paler band of skin around her left ring finger, barely discernible, but you can see it when the back of her hand is in the light, like that. The marriage is likely not doing well, maybe due to the fact that she's a closet lesbian." He studied the woman (and her girlfriend) a bit longer, trying to see what Sherlock would see. "She hasn't told the woman she's with that she's married. It's too carefree. The girlfriend would likely look uncomfortable in public with her, or wouldn't be with her at all." He stared more. Went out on a limb. "Her... well, her nails are carefully dulled, and while most women do like to take care of her nails, she's obviously not that type of woman-"

"Obviously," Sherlock cut in, regarding her poorly-managed hair, and clothing that seemed to be randomly picked and put together.

John ignored the jibe. It was none of their business how the woman decided to dress. "Anyway, her nails are managed, and since she doesn't seem to care much for her appearance, she wouldn't care about the state of her nails, implying her and this other woman are-" He cleared his throat. "Intimate, physically." He didn't have to expand on that. Sherlock understood, if the slight smirk he gave at John's discomfort meant anything.

"Don't be a prude," said Sherlock.

John ignored that too - he wasn't a prude, just didn't want to think about other peoples' sex lives, it was, again, none of his business - and gave the woman one last glance. "She... she does something involving typing. Maybe journalism, editing - there are marks on her wrists suggesting she has them pressed against the edge of a desk or laptop for hours on end. Mid-thirties. Unhappy in her marriage, blissful in her affair." He looked back to Sherlock. "How did I do?"

They'd arrived at this little café about an hour ago. Apparently, the owner here owed Sherlock his life, too - John wasn't entirely sure there was a person who owned a restaurant who _didn't_ owe Sherlock something - and since they were in the area, and John had mentioned (complained) that he was hungry, Sherlock had led him here promising "at least _decent_ food." They didn't have a case right now, and John thought maybe he could trick Sherlock into eating by ordering something he knew the detective would pick at - and he was right. Sherlock had been picking at his chips the whole time when he thought John wasn't looking.

About ten minutes into their lunch, Sherlock was bored, claimed the people around them were dull, and asked (told) John to try and deduce their life stories, or at least parts of them. Since the first person (a bald man sitting alone at a booth near the window), the range of results had gone from "Excellent, really, but you forgot that he's a chain smoker, a recovering alcoholic, has a family he never sees, is balancing two jobs, is lactose intolerant, is gay but in the closet..." and so on listing a bunch of things John was positive were made up because they were impossible to see, to the most recent one, the woman, which had Sherlock actually _smiling_ at him.

"You missed a few things - unimportant things - but that was well-done, for a normal person."

John snorted. "Thanks."

Sherlock nodded at a group of teenagers near the bar. "The girl with the hat?"

John prattled off a list of things he could see or thought he could see. Top of her grade, popular, well-liked, but depressed, hiding marks on her forearms and wrists with makeup and bangles, into women if the way she kept looking at her friend with that _look_ in her eyes meant anything. Some other things. Sherlock seemed pleased.

"The blond bartender. No, not him - the one nearest the till."

John looked, frowned, looked away. "Sherlock, are you deliberately getting me to deduce- you know- gay people?" He was kind of perturbed that he'd even managed to be able to tell just from a look. Sherlock was really rubbing off on him. It was a bit thrilling if he was completely honest. But still.

"Not gay, bisexual, John, honestly. Besides, what does it matter?"

"Because with you, there's always a reason. _Oh, no there's not, don't be ridiculous John, and wipe that look off your face, you look like an idiot_." Sherlock looked mildly impressed at the impression. "Actually, this is the face that I make when I know you're fucking with me. I'm not as stupid as you think I am. So, what are you trying to prove?" He raised his eyebrows, knowing full well what Sherlock was trying to prove. He just wanted to hear Sherlock say it. And to explain to him _why_. He never did explain why.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. Pursed his lips. And then said nothing, and continued to stare, until John became slightly uncomfortable (he really should be used to this by now) and felt his cheeks warming and said, "_What, _Sherlock?"

"I don't think you're stupid, but I do think you're being deliberately obtuse. You know the reason."

"I'm-"

"Not gay, I know. Obviously not. You lust after _women_-" he said it as if the fairer sex was actually some form of unidentified, unpleasant microbe he'd found under his microscope, "-too much. Not gay. Not straight, either."

John groaned. "This is getting old, Sherlock! I've never been interested in men. Not once."

(And that wasn't entirely true, but he wasn't about to admit that, because he liked being _friends_ with Sherlock, and admitting he had an _I'm-straight-but-I-still-wonder-what-you'd-look-like-if-I-fucked-you-_thing for the _asexual_ detective wasn't going to keep the odds of that continuing in his favour. And anyway, that didn't prove that he was bisexual, which was what Sherlock wanted him to 'admit.' He had no desire whatsoever to have any other male in his bed. Just Sherlock.)

_Damn this man._

"Besides," John went on, trying not to think about Sherlock in his bed, "what does it matter? Why do you care who I roll around in the sheets with? Why do you even care about sex, Mr. Married-to-my-work?"

They'd had this conversation so many times that Sherlock didn't even blink. "It matters because you're distracted. During cases, at home - you think about sex, and how _unsatisfied_ you are-"

"Because _someone _keeps interrupting my dates before I can make a move!"

"-and I want - _need, _actually, you're dreadfully annoying when you're horny - you to find a partner that can satisfy you so you're not so," he made a vague gesture with his hands, "anymore." There was a suggestive lilt in his voice when he said that. _A partner like me._ No, probably not. John most likely imagined it. Definitely imagined it. He imagined Sherlock talking suggestively to him far too often, to the point where he thought he was pretty close to how it would sound realistically. It needed to stop. Really. But that _voice_.

He cleared his throat, ignored those thoughts - _asexual, won't welcome it, don't want things to be awkward, respect how he is, _don't _think about it John - _and said, "Well, yes- thank you, Sherlock. For being... concerned." If it could be called concern. "But I'm perfectly fine with Sarah." No he wasn't, they'd never had sex, never even laid in the same bed, for God's sake, and he was sure he would die of sexual frustration, but that didn't matter because what _did_ matter was keeping his thoughts about Sherlock secret from the man who knew nearly every secret in the world. "I'll never admit I'm bisexual, because I'm not." He shook his head. "Why do you think I am?"

The waiter chose then to show up to refill their drinks, and offer to take John's plate. Sherlock gazed at the chips longingly - _longingly_! - and John quickly refused, claiming he wasn't quite finished. Seconds later, the man was gone, and John's question remained hanging in the air.

"Sherlock?" he prompted when it became quite clear Sherlock was more interested in his chips than his question.

"Mm."

John swallowed irritation. He wasn't angry. Yet. Just a bit exasperated.

"Well?"

Usually, Sherlock either avoided the question - like he was now - or changed the subject altogether. He picked up his cell phone and started to text. John wanted to punch him a bit.

"Sherlock?"

"Hold on. Lestrade is texting me."

John could see the reflection of Sherlock's screen in his grey eyes. He was staring at the apps and not at all texting. John's eyebrow twitched. It was all very typical.

"How stupid do you think I am?" he said tersely. Probably louder than necessary. Oh well – Sherlock was ticking him off, a raised voice was the least he could expect.

"Oh for God's sake, John, don't yell. We're in public."

"Then answer my damn question!" John hissed. People stared. Someone made a comment about young love. John wondered what that was about, because he was well into his thirties. Sherlock sighed. He put down his phone.

"I think you're bisexual because you are."

"I'm _not_," John snapped. He was tired of having this discussion. Honestly, he was _trying_ to protect their friendship here, and Sherlock was making that extremely difficult. He never did make things easy, mind you, but John was close to blowing a brain circuit.

Sherlock just stared at him.

_Honestly._

"Listen," John said, quieter, because people were giving them funny looks, "I've never been interested in men. Never." _Before you._ "I've nothing against men who like men. That's their prerogative, and I don't care - my sister is a lesbian, for God's sake. But I just don't. Not interested, not in denial. I don't like men." _Just you._

Sherlock just continued silently looking at him. John deflated, sighed, and said, "Maybe if you'd tell me why you think it instead of avoiding it, I could help you understand-" and what a funny thing that was to say to Sherlock Holmes "-that I'm not interested in men. It doesn't disgust me, but it doesn't - do anything for me, either."

And he realized that saying that was a mistake, because the grin Sherlock was now sporting was reminiscent of that of the Cheshire cat's.

"It doesn't disgust you."

"I - no, but-"

"It doesn't turn you off? Doesn't make you squeamish?"

"Of course not, I'm a _doctor_, sex of any kind doesn't make me—"

"A straight man would, most likely, feel at least somewhat turned off by the idea of getting off with another man."

John shifted, panicking a bit. "I mean, I wouldn't-"

"No, don't change your mind now, you can't do that."

"Sherlock," John said shortly, glaring, irritated. "Would you just _explain_ to me your thought process?" He was angry now. He wasn't sure why. He just didn't want to fuck up their friendship, and he was fairly close to snapping emotionally – and whether that meant punching Sherlock or kissing him, it wasn't good.

Something changed in Sherlock's eyes, then, and he looked just a bit smaller than he had seconds ago. John blinked. That had never happened. He'd never pressed this hard. Never gotten that annoyed. Interesting. But alarming.

Sherlock looked out the window. He looked immensely bored, suddenly. "It's going to rain. We should probably go."

Changing the subject. Avoiding talking about it. John wanted to be annoyed about it. Instead, he deflated, just like that.

He bit his lip, tempted to argue, but too many people were staring already, and something about the way Sherlock looked almost had him... wprried. It was barely noticeable - Sherlock had obviously had a lot of practice putting on masks to cover what he was feeling. The Sociopath Mask, John had oh-so-creatively dubbed it in his head. John had learnt to see past it. And it was a bit scary. Because Sherlock looked nervous. And so he quieted, sighed, and nodded.

"Fine."

There was no need to pay - the owner was nearly as insistent as Angelo - and they were out the door moments later. The stars were just beginning to twinkle, scattered like diamonds on black velvet. John remembered that time Sherlock had remarked how beautiful the night sky was, even through the layer of smog above the city. It made his stomach churn a bit. Sherlock was upset now, closed off, silent, and nothing of the sort was likely to be said.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean to get angry," he tried, jogging to catch up to Sherlock's longer strides.

"Forget it," Sherlock said dully, not looking at him. "I'll drop it. Forget we ever discussed it. I'll delete it, if you like."

"No, don't be like that."

"I'm not being like anything." _You were the one who got angry. _He didn't say it, but John heard it nonetheless.

_You pushed too hard_, John replied silently, but he knew that was bullshit, and that he'd gotten too scared of his own feelings and had taken it out on Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock had pushed – but he hadn't meant any harm, really. John felt like shit.

"I'm sorry," he said, because there was nothing else to say.

"It's fine," Sherlock replied, calm. "It's all fine. As always."

It had started to mist. A chill set down on John, and, staring from the corner of his eye at Sherlock's blank face, which had been so alive and thrilled and teasing earlier, he wasn't entirely sure it was just from the weather.

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**A/N: **So, thoughts? :) I'll add another chapter if this gets any positive feedback. It's just for fun, just to get myself back into writing, but if people like it that's even better. Thanks for reading if you got this far!

Also I feel the need to add that ochau on Tumblr suggested I give this fic the title of "yo listen up this is little tale about a guy named john and a guy named sherlock so sit up, buckle your seatbelts, and take a deep breath, because it's story time, you little shits" It didn't fit, but I thought it was pretty good. :D


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